A Game for Two (University AU)
by Senshi Sun aka Magic Ink
Summary: Now Sherlock is attending university, he thinks he's rid of his rival, Irene Adler. To his shock, she's living right across the hall. They immediately go back to their old bickering. But something's different now. With their roommates, John and Mary, will they discover there's more to each other than solving crimes?
1. A Meeting of Notoriety

Irene unpacked her bags with the enthusiasm of a child in a Disney Resort. She knew the halls of Dupin University would be her haven. She would be able to research what she wanted and do as she pleased without interruption or competition. Living on campus, in Doyle House, meant she would not be far from her education. Even her silent roommate, who was unpacking her own things, couldn't kill her enthusiasm.

Her roommate ended her silence once she finished hanging up her shirts. "So, you're Irene, right?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't, unless you're not Mary Morstan and I'm not in the right room." Irene smiled to hide her lack of surprise.

"I am!" Mary's eyes sparkled. "You're in the right place."

Irene carried her books to her bookshelf. "Good."

Mary smiled, recognizing her slight accent. "I was so worried we wouldn't have anything in common, but we do. We're both foreigners."

Irene sighed. "I've lived in England since primary school. I'm a foreigner in citizenship and accent, nothing more. We still might have something in common."

"What do you mean?" Mary perked up.

Irene put her books on her shelf as she spoke. "I know you've come from an Asian country, most likely India, though you are mostly of English decent. You don't really have a family, and you've brought most of what you own to university. You make friends easily and trust people without a second thought. You have a positive outlook on life. You are uncertain about what this new home will be like, but you hope to find romance here. There is one trait you and I share: we are both silent when focusing on something."

Mary's eyes widened as her eyebrows rose as high as they could. "How did you do that? You haven't been snooping through my social media, have you?"

"Relax." Irene put the last book in its place. "I didn't know who my roommate would be until I moved in. That would be impressive, but the truth is much simpler. I analyzed you directly."

Mary stared at her in silence.

"Need me to explain how I figured it out?"

Mary nodded.

Irene leaned against the shelf. "When I first saw you, I noticed your skin is a bit tanned, and the name Morstan is English. Your items are all very cheap brands. They are eclectic, with many incomplete sets, meaning you must have bought them second-hand. Your body's posture was open and relaxed, and you keep eye contact when you speak, indicating an open demeanor and willingness to socialize. When someone is not talking to you, you look every which way. You didn't speak while you were unpacking."

"That's awesome!" Mary beamed.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "That is not what most people say."

"What do they say?"

"They usually just call me a bitch." Irene sighed.

Mary walked over to Irene. "I do have a couple questions. How did you know I was hoping to find love?"

"The romance novels. Your personal collection consists of nothing else."

"Then you must not have any interests." Mary looked at Irene's bookshelf, which held nothing but textbooks.

The observant girl smiled, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. "Oh, I do. I prefer not to advertise them."

"Ok." Mary's smile couldn't hide the confusion in her eyes. "How did you know I lived in India?"

"You do a slight head bob." Irene picked up her purse and headed to the door. "I'm going to run some errands. I'll be back in five."

Mary sat down. "Sounds good."

With keenness, Irene burst out of her room. She walked down the hall until a frighteningly familiar face stopped her.

Irene looked into the chiseled face of the man she'd just spotted, her eyes narrowing and her posture straightening. "Holmes."

The man looked down his nose at her. "Adler. You're supposed to be in America."

Irene relaxed, crossing her arms. "Change of plans. British schools are better. Why are you here? Nepotism?"

Holmes smirked. "Let me simplify it for you. Dupin University has one of the most highly respected programs in England, and I am a respected man."

"With a response like that, I'm forced to assume you got in using nepotism."

"You know my grades."

"Most respectable universities don't accept those enamored with benzoylmethylecgonine."

"Nor do they accept those enamored with a nymph's pastimes."

Irene clenched her fist. "That is in the past."

"And I am clean." Holmes squared his shoulders. "Your argument is unstable."

"Yours is non-existent." Irene glared at him. "Defend something."

Holmes smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Would you like me to take a simple test for you?"

Irene took a step back, eyes wide with disgust. "God, no."

The door to Holmes's dorm opened, and his roommate stepped out. He glanced at his phone.

Holmes turned to him, smiling. "Where're you going, John?"

"To the grocer's." John's phone buzzed, and he read a new text message. A look of shock crept over his face. "Oh shit."

Irene looked at John. "What's wrong?"

"Tobias's neighbor was just found dead. He's got to be freaking out. I'm going to see him." John blinked and shook his head. "He said the room was locked on the inside. Weird."

Holmes grinned. "You don't mind if I come with you?"

John shoved his phone in his pocket. "You might as well. I already ordered a cab."

As Holmes and John headed for the stairs, Irene dialed a number. "Hello. I'd like to get a cab to Dupin University. Right away, please."


	2. The Darkened Scene

John stared out the window of the cab as they drove down the road. A tapping noise caused him to turn his head to the other side of the cab. His travel companion was just as bored, drumming his fingers on his seat.

John adjusted his seatbelt. "Who was that girl you were talking to?"

"The woman?" Homes turned to face him.

"Yes." John looked at Holmes. "Who is she?"

Holmes shrugged. "A previous classmate of mine. We were in all of the same classes in sixth form. Who's Tobias?"

"One of my old friends from school."

"I see."

John turned back to the window, watching the houses and streets as they drove on. When they reached Brixton Road, he raised his hand.

"Here will be fine." John put one hand on his seatbelt as the cab pulled into the parking lane. "Come on, Sherlock. It's only a couple houses down."

"Hey!" The cabbie held out his wizened hand. "'At'll be ten quid for you blokes."

John stuffed a ten-pound note into the cabbies palm. "Right. Good day."

The young men got out of the cab ignorant of the similar scene playing out not a block from where they stood. John strode past the houses until he reached number two, Lauriston Gardens. Sherlock was only a few steps behind him.

A young man with bags under his eyes jumped up when he saw John walking towards him. "John, man, thanks for coming. I'm not doing too good." He saw the man towering behind him. "Who's this?"

The tall man held out his hand for the disheveled man to shake. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. You must be Tobias."

"I am." Tobias nodded as he shook Sherlock's hand. He shot John a confused glance.

"I'm an amateur specialist in crime, a consulting detective, as it were. I've been doing this for years; don't let my appearance fool you." Sherlock answered. "I know what I'm doing."

"Right, then." Tobias rubbed his neck. "What exactly will you be doing here?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked almost disgusted. "Examining the crime scene."

Tobias and John exchanged an awkward look as Sherlock walked next door and began to look at the dirt path leading up to the home.

As he left, a small, dark haired woman approached the two. "I'm looking for Hol- Sherlock."

Tobias stared at her before pointing a shaky finger to number three.

"You won't mind me poking around inside, will you?" The woman smiled.

"No?" That was all Tobias was able to say.

The woman nodded, satisfied with the answer. She walked to the next house with an air of confidence.

Sherlock sighed inwardly when he saw Irene's polished shoes in his peripheral vision. "Of course."

Tobias looked at the two from the safety of his own front lawn. "Another consulting detective?"

"Probably. They know each other" John put his hands in his pockets.

Sherlock knelt down to examine the ground with a casual air as Irene stepped around him, looking at the path from a standing height. While Irene merely eyeballed the path the footprints made before heading to the door, Sherlock made measurements of each type of shoeprint, using his hands as a base. He pursed his lips as he looked at the trails to see where each one lead. At one point, he made an exclamation. When he was placated, he carefully moved towards the door. He barely touched the handle as he turned it to let himself inside.

A bare, plain hallway stretched out to two wooden doors. One opened to the dining room; the other was covered in dust. Holmes followed a rustling sound to the dining room.

Irene was already in the room, closely looking at a blotch of mildew on the generic striped wallpaper. Sherlock looked around. It was rather large, with the limited amount of furniture making it look even larger. An over decorated fireplace gave the room an air of false elegance. The rest of the room might have kept up that air had not been in such a foul state. A red lamp was placed on the mantle, occasionally flickering. A baroque-style desk sat in the center of the room with a worn chair. A layer of dust covered the whole room, filtering the sunlight, creating a hazy atmosphere. In one corner of the room, there was a pile of ash that Sherlock studied closely.

Irene moved to the main attraction this room contained: a body. It lay on its back, its open eyes focused on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It had once been a man roughly forty-three years of age, with black coils of hair hanging from his head and a stubbly beard. He was dressed in a grey business suit and simple brown tie. Its hands had once been clenched though its legs were still crossed. Its apelike jaw was agape, as if in terror. Irene moved over ever aspect of this strange corpse, passing her hands over every pocket and seam, not touching anything. When she was finished, she gave a soft murmur of approval before turning to examine the fireplace.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to examine the room's ghastly figure. He made slow passes over the body, making mental notes of everything he saw. There were several splashes of blood around the body, though there was no obvious exit wound. The suit was high quality, clearly a name brand. The stench emanating from the corpse had a few strange notes to it, possibly indicating a garlic-heavy diet. Sherlock knelt to take a look at the man's leather shoes.

Sherlock stood, and as he did so, he saw another figure, this one very much alive, standing in the doorway. The figure approached, stepping into the light. He was slightly shorter than Sherlock, with a lean body and gray hair. Clearly, he was not a physical threat.

The thin man held out a police badge. "Inspector Lestrade. Please move to the door."

Sherlock and Irene silently stepped to the doorway to stand side by side, next to the door. They held themselves in a militaristic posture as the inspector and his assistants walked through the room.

"Good day, Inspector." Sherlock barely moved. "How is the case treating you?"

Lestrade scanned the dusty room, putting on latex gloves. "It doesn't look good. I've never seen anything like this. Did you move the body?"

"Not at all, Inspector," Irene and Sherlock stated in near unison.

The assistants lifted the corpse onto a stretcher. As they did so, a small, shiny object pinged as it hit the floor. Lestrade picked it up in an instant.

"I'll be daft." Lestrade peered at the object, a small tube of precious metal. "It's a woman's wedding ring." Lestrade gave Irene a sidelong glance.

Irene shook her head. "I'm eighteen. Be reasonable, though if you were, you might have figured out who it really belongs to."

Lestrade called for a plastic bag to put the ring in. "This makes things interesting. We already have a gold pocket watch, several pounds worth of pocket change, a pocketbook with the address of a J. Stangerson, a pin in the shape of a bulldog's face, and two letters."

"Addressed to whom?" Irene clasped her hands behind her back.

Lestrade dropped the ring in the bag. "One for E. J. Drebber and one for Joseph Stangerson."

Irene looked up. "Strange."

Lestrade began to look around the room. "Listen, I've told you more than I should have, so if you two wouldn't mind leaving, that would be very helpful. You've seen everything you need to see here."

Sherlock pointed to the darkest corner of the room "You haven't."

Lestrade crept over to the bleak corner. He took a flashlight off his belt and shone it there. The circle of light revealed peeling wallpaper and letters, written in strange brownish ink. The letters spelled out "Rache."

"Well," Lestrade smiled, holding his flashlight up to the letters, "that seems to clear one thing up. The ring must belong to a woman named Rachel."

"Rache is revenge in German." Sherlock avoided eye contact with the inspector.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "All right, kids. If you're so smart, how was this man murdered?"

"Poison." Irene crossed her arms. "Logically. Have a good day, Inspector."

Irene rushed to the two men outside with Sherlock hot on her heels. As Tobias talked to a police officer at the crime scene, John ran up to the amateur detectives.

John beamed with excitement. "How did you not get kicked out?"

"It's a trade secret." Sherlock smirked. "We'll be needing to speak with your friend next. Will you be staying?"

John pulled out his cell phone. "Are you kidding? I'll go talk to him myself!"

John sauntered over to Tobias, who was still talking to the officer. "I took a look at the body- excuse me, officer." He turned to John. "In a minute. The door's open. You can make some tea or coffee if you want."

John raised a hand in farewell. He led the two amateur detectives to the door and opened it. Once they were inside, he stepped inside.

"So…" John looked from Irene to Sherlock as he worded his sentence carefully. "What exactly did you two do in there?"

Sherlock grinned. "I figured out the perpetrator was a within fifteen years of our age, over six feet tall, and had small feet for his size."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Surely you noticed the long nails and his rosy glow."

"Of course." Sherlock looked directly at his longhaired rival. "And he and the victim-"

"Came to the house at the same time?" Irene sneered at Sherlock's slight change of expression.

Sherlock's face quickly returned to its original expression. "I'm only taking us here to confirm my theory."

Irene's voice took on a mocking tone. "You aren't clear in your convictions? What a pity."

"At least I'm not the one relying on stereotypes." Sherlock's voice mirrored that tone.

"His fingernails and his face have nothing to do with each other."

"Both of you!" John held up his hands, hesitating at the others' glares. "Would you like some tea?"

Irene shook her head.

Sherlock gave John a polite smile. "I think I'm alright for now."

"At least take a seat." John pointed to the living room couch.

The two begrudgingly sat on the couch as John sat in a chair too large for him. They glanced around the room while they waited. The detectives each came to the conclusion John was getting anxious about the whole affair.

When Tobias finally arrived, a great amount of tension dissipated. His carefree, swaggering gait was betrayed by the hints of disturbance in his eyes. He sat down in the comfiest chair in the living room; his eyes darted between his three guests.

"Tobias, I know you just told the police your story, but would you mind telling it to us?" Sherlock tented his fingers as he spoke. "You don't need to go over every detail. Just the basics are fine."

Tobias sighed. "Must I?"

"The police will take too long." Irene nodded. "They can't sneeze without signing ten pages of paperwork."

"Especially with that false trail I put them on." Sherlock smirked again.

Irene shot Sherlock a glare. "Crackhead."

Sherlock returned it. "Slut."

John raised his hand "Guys! Tobias is trying to speak."

Tobias cleared his throat, bringing the bickering duo to attention. "The last time I saw my neighbor was two nights ago. He'd come over to borrow my toolbox. One of his door hinges was falling off, I think. I don't really remember. I should- there wasn't anything else happening from then until now. Anyway, I was getting home with a couple of my buddies. I noticed his light was on, the one on the mantle, and I thought it looked strange. I went to check it out. On my own."

Irene raised her index finger. "You paced at the front gate a little before going in, did you not?"

"Yeah… I did." Tobias looked from Irene to Sherlock.

A subtle smile appeared on John's face.

Irene put her hands in her lap. "Good."

"I paced for a while, but decided to go in even if I was alone. That house was empty, but that lamp was flickering like mad. When I got inside, I looked around the room before checking on the body. Then I got outside, called the police, and texted John."

"I don't believe you are lying, but you missed some details." Sherlock made eye contact with a nervous Tobias. "You walked around the room a few times before kneeling to look at the body. Then you tried the kitchen door, which was locked."

"How do you know that? Were you spying?" Tobias shifted in his seat.

Sherlock chuckled. "I didn't know you existed until today; don't go trying to accuse me of murder. Now, tell me, when you went to call the police, was anybody else on the street?"

"Nobody normal." Tobias looked at the ceiling.

Irene rested her chin in her hands. "Meaning?"

"He was incredibly drunk, the most drunk man I've seen in my life. He was leaning on the fence when I came up, singing an old pub tune. He couldn't stand, yet alone be coherent enough to hold a conversation. I would have called the police on him if it wasn't for the bloody murder."

A look of recognition crossed the detective's faces.

Sherlock leaned slightly forward. "What did he look like?"

Tobias looked away, conjuring the image of the drunk in his mind. "He was about a foot taller than me, with a bright red face."

"Told you so." Irene's voice took on a mocking tone before returning to normal. "What was he wearing?"

"A huge brown overcoat."

"Right." Sherlock set his hands in his lap. "What happened to him?"

"I'm fairly certain he found his way home alright. My mind was a little… you know."

"Thank you, Tobias." Irene stood, a smile upon her lips. "That's all I needed to hear."

Sherlock held out a pound note as he stood. "Buy yourself a pint. Your normal mind will be needing one after all of this."

Tobias carefully took the money. "Thank you. Have a nice day."

John stayed seated. "I'm going to stick around for a while longer. You two can go home."

"Good day, John." Sherlock waved as he left the house, grinning. Once outside, the grin melted away. "What an idiot!"

Irene came up beside him, shoving the front door closed. "It was right there! How could he not see it?"

"The guy probably would have gotten the thing too, if Tobias hadn't been there." A maniacal look crossed Sherlock's face. "Now all we have to do is trick him with the ring."

Irene looked at Sherlock with narrowed eyes, her hands on her hips. "Whatever do you mean by 'we'?"


	3. The Changing of a Band

When John arrived at his dorm that afternoon, Sherlock was sitting at his desk and typing on his laptop. John tapped his sitting roommate on the shoulder.

With a jolt, Sherlock shut his laptop. "Can I help you?"

"I'm still confused about this whole case." John smiled with nervousness. "Do you think the criminal came back?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think. I know."

"Why?"

"The ring, my good man, he came back for the ring. Or, he tried to. He never got his ring back. That will be his downfall. I have to thank you for telling me about that message. This is a fine case." Sherlock noticed John's befuddled expression. "Let me put this into terms you might be able to understand. The colourless skein of life contains a single scarlet thread, the thread of murder. Most people ignore it. Others, like myself, try to untangle it and expose every inch of it."

John seemed at least somewhat relaxed. "That doesn't really make sense. Thanks."

Sherlock turned back to his computer. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a murderer to catch."

"I'm going to take a nap." John headed for his bed.

"It's only one in the afternoon." Sherlock barely moved, his palm resting on the laptop.

"Today's taken a lot out of me. There's been the moving, the murder, not to mention the girls… I'm not the strongest person in the world."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright. Have a good sleep."

As John settled into his bed, Sherlock returned to the message he was typing. When he was finished writing, he examined the thing he was responding to, an advertisement for a woman's ring. It would work perfectly.

When he sent his reply, a notification popped up. He switched to another tab. He knew he was talking to the killer's assistant, and though they'd both hid their names and I. P. addresses, the assistant was asking for a picture of him. There was no way Sherlock could give the killer his real photo, but the assistant would need to see him in a crowd. He quickly typed a response.

 _SH: Does the picture have to be perfect? I don't have any good ones._

 _GodAboveAll: If I can recognize you, it's okay._

 _SH: Okay. Hold on._

Sherlock opened his file directory, going to the pictures without identification data. There were hundreds of photos there. Most of the photos were of people, either individually or in groups. He scrolled to the pictures of his graduation. It took him little time to find the picture he wanted. It was a cropped photo. Between two blurry torsos, Irene could be seen. He attached the photo.

 _SH: Here you go._

 _GodAboveAll: Oh, you look adorable! What's your name?_

 _SH: Irene._

 _GodAboveAll: Okay. I'll see you at the Dupin University Library at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow._

 _SH: See you then._

Sherlock's informant logged off. After a few seconds, Sherlock did the same.


	4. A Game for Three

Sherlock sat in a disused classroom in the college. The room was grey and unadorned. Its single noticeable feature was a window that faced the building next door. His current enemy, the accomplice, stood between him and the door. The man was pointing a gun-shaped lighter at Sherlock's head, though it was just for intimidation.

"This is a dull way to spend a day." Sherlock crossed his arms, leaning against a desk.

The accomplice laughed. "Oh, I can make it a lot more fun, Mr. 'olmes. Do you think I 'elped murder someone yesterday? Because you're wrong. Nobody was killed."

"Your behaviors don't fit the behavior of a murderer's accomplice. They look more like a murderer's."

The accomplice shook his head. "No, I was simply the last to see them before they died. They killed themselves."

With a start, Sherlock realized he was in the same room as a serial killer. His analytical brain worked to break through this man's walls. Immediately, something on the man's jacket stood out. There were small flecks of acrylic paint and glitter on his coat.

"Your children wouldn't like you doing this," Sherlock remarked.

The murderer stared at the detective. "Children?"

"You have children. Girls. You raise them by yourself, judging by the fact nobody's told you there is shaving cream behind your ear and glittery paint on your coat. You feel like the children won't be well without a mother, so you dress in women's clothing. The mother must have left you."

He looked away, holding back tears.

Sherlock continued. "She died, and it still hurts. Now, the rest of your clothes have been laundered, but they've got about three years of wear… was that when they told you?"

"Told me what?"

"You're a dead man walking."

"Oh, you are good. Very good. I 'ad an aneurism. The doctors say I don't 'ave a lot of time left. Your friend was right." The murderer smiled.

Sherlock sat back. "I don't have friends."

"Especially not at a time like this!" Irene burst into the room.

The murderer's grin became wider. "Two of you! Perfect!"

"What's this idiot talking about?" Irene turned to Sherlock.

"You are right brilliant with that phone call business. Real thinkers, the both of you. But, between the three of us, who is the best thinker?"

Irene slipped into the chair next to Sherlock. "Go on."

"I 'ave a game we can play to find out. Odds are, it'll be the last thing you ever know."

The murderer pulled a bottle of three pills out of his coat pocket. He removed the cap, tipping the identical white pieces into his hand.

"Okay. Explain." Sherlock crossed his arms.

"We have three pills here. They all look the same. Two are bad and one is good. I know which is which, and you don't."

"So?" Irene crossed her legs.

"So you choose what you think is the good pill. Then I take the last one, and we take our medicine together. Only the smartest one lives. The ones who pretend to be smart, they die. They can't think well enough."

The detectives' eyes were now on the murderer's hand as he arranged the pills into a neat line, with one in front of each player. All the pills faced the same way, and there were no imperfections.

"You gave them a choice. That's how the others died." Sherlock's eyes slowly moved across the pills.

The murderer nodded. "And now I'm giving you two one."

"This is chance, sir." Irene looked over the pills again.

"Oh, no. I've won four times. That's not chance, that's skill. I 'ave to be smart to do that. It's like chess. Do you like chess?"

There was no response – the detectives were too busy thinking.

"I see." He pushed the pill in the middle towards the detectives. "Was that a bluff, or a double bluff, or a triple bluff?"

"How do you know the losers would die?" Irene mused, keeping her eyes on the pills.

Sherlock stared at the middle pill. "The winner could call campus security before the drug takes hold. Even if they don't know what the drug is, they could identify its symptoms. Oral drugs take some time before absorbing themselves into the bloodstream."

"It's not like this building is private." Irene's eyes darted to the window.

Back in the campus's courtyard, John ran down the path. "Why did you need to take a bathroom break now?"

Mary was a few steps behind. "Because I really had to go, I'm sorry." She clutched her bulging right-hand pocket, trying to keep the contents from falling.

"Speaking of going…" John stopped in front of two identical buildings. "Where did Irene go?"

"Left?"

"Sure."

As John and Mary ran up the steps, Sherlock and Irene were still staring at that middle pill. The murderer watched the young detectives intently.

"Go on. It shouldn't be too difficult for a smart person to figure it out. You two got into university. I'm a high-school dropout. Wouldn't that be unfortunate, having a dropout be smarter than you?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "You're a waste as a cabbie."

"A killer cabbie? Why?" Irene sat back, scanning the murderer. "Why would killing people help your children?"

"I 'ave 'elp. A sponsor. Every person I kill, I get some money for my kids. And you two? You go for double."

"Who would pay for my death?" Sherlock stared at the cabbie again.

"Who would want both of you dead?"

"Just one sponsor?" Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Someone more than a man, but one sponsor all the same."

"An organization, then?"

"I'm not naming names. Now, it's time to choose. May the smart one win."

Irene and Sherlock locked eyes with each other before reaching for the pill in the middle. Realizing what they were about to do, they put their hands back at their sides.

"What if we don't choose a pill? We could just walk away." Irene smirked.

The murderer sighed, exasperated and disappointed. "Then I'd have to shoot you both. Nobody's gone for that before."

"Really" Sherlock looked pointedly at the gun-shaped lighter. "Then I'll be the first."

"And I'll be the second." Irene stood.

"Right, then." The murderer held the lighter near Sherlock and pulled the trigger. A flame burst out of the muzzle.

Sherlock pushed the lighter away from his face. "I know a real gun when I see it."

"This has been very fun, sir." Irene headed for the door. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to make a phone call."

Sherlock followed. "See you at the courthouse."

"Are you just going to leave me here. Fine, do that. But you'll never know which one of you is smarter. You can play these things well when you have no consequences, but if you're not able to bet your life, then you're only smart as you look. Which one is the good pill?"

"It's obvious!" Sherlock scoffed.

"Then prove it."

The detectives returned to the table, looking at each other, silent. Then, they picked up the pill closest to where they had been sitting.

"That's 'ow you're going to play?" The murderer smiled. "You will bet your lives?" He picked up the final pill. "You must get bored so easily. You two are so clever that you get bored all the time. You're still addicts, and this competition between you two, that's your drug. Innit good?"

All three raised the pills to their lips. At that moment, a shot rang out, piercing the killer's cold heart. The detectives dropped their pills in shock. They looked out of the window in time to see the silhouettes of two people, one male and the other female, leaving the room. The killer fell to the ground.

Sherlock pounced on him. "Who was right? Who had the good pill?"

"Tell us, man!" Irene ordered.

The killer just smiled.

Irene sighed. "We can analyze them later. Now, tell us something we don't know. Your sponsor."

"No." The killer looked away.

"I can still hurt you." Sherlock pressed his foot against the killer's shoulder. "Tell me the name."

"No!" The response was a scream this time.

Irene stepped on his other shoulder. "Tell me who's paying you."

"Mory..." The name was only whispered, but the detectives still heard it.

As the last breaths of life escaped the killer's lips, Irene and Sherlock took their feet off him. The name of the sponsor echoed through their minds. Who could this Mory be?


End file.
